


WIPs

by Rrrowr



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Sentinels & Guides, Love Potion/Spell, M/M, Makeover, Not Fic, Sentinel/Guide Bonding
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-10
Updated: 2015-03-10
Packaged: 2018-03-17 01:46:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,548
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3510584
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rrrowr/pseuds/Rrrowr
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Abandoned TW fic ideas that have been stuck on my drive <i>forever</i>. Rating and tags will change as fic-bits get added</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Peter/Stiles: sentinel guide au (Rating: G)

**Author's Note:**

> This was an idea that got tossed around in my ask box with several people. There had been a few of sentinel!aus going around at the time, always with the werewolves as the sentinels, so I thought it might be interesting to see what it would be like to have Peter as a Guide instead.

_There's some background story that is supposed to reflect on the season 1 canon, where Peter happened to accidentally activate Scott's Sentinel powers. They had a brief bond that Peter constantly had to force in order to keep Scott under control and Scott resented it forever until he finally found a proper bondmate in Allison._

Deaton leads Peter along a platform high above a wide room. Below them, young Sentinels between the ages of thirteen and twenty one are being put through some of their training exercises. Deaton points to some of the better students, closest to the center, and Peter politely leans over the rail to look at them.

"It’s unusual for a Guide of your caliber to be seeking a new Sentinel," Deaton says neutrally. "May I ask what happened to your last bondmate?"

A redhead looks up at him from the center of the room, but as beautiful as she is, Peter feels nothing when he looks at her. Peter casts his gaze further along. “It was only ever meant to be temporary,” Peter explains. It’s hardly the whole story, but Peter doesn’t feel like divulging more than that. He doesn’t know how to succinctly describe Scott or the awful repercussions of the battlefield bond he forced on Scott. The mental scar that remains is enough.

"How unfortunate," Deaton responds with minimal empathy. "Hopefully we can find a suitable partner for you today. Something more permanent perhaps?"

"Wonderful," Peter says dryly.

Deaton leads Peter past long grey hallways and blank walls. It's the sterile, uninteresting environment needed for Sentinels who are unbonded and sensitive to any subtle changes around them. Even the guards, positioned at the ends of each hall, have shields across their faces to hide their expressions and specially designed suits to hide their scents. For the Sentinels below him, Peter must be a rare treat of experiences -- the soft lilt of his voice, a whiff of his scent, and of course, the alluring pheromones of an available Guide.

Peter pays only half a mind to Deaton's monologue as he trails behind. He's heard this speech before. He's well aware of the protocols he needs to go through to find a new bondmate. Deaton is halfway through describing how superb the training is in this facility when an alarm goes off -- just a quiet titter of sound, really -- and then shouts from a guard, followed shortly by the crackling snaps of a taser and a thump as someone hits the ground.

"Excuse me a moment," Deaton says before rushing toward the commotion. Peter is right on his heels, interest piqued.

When they round the next corner, Peter is surprised to see a young Sentinel twitching on the floor while the taser continues to deliver a charge. The Sentinel is clawing at the smooth tile despite that, teeth gritted as he twists to look at Peter. His hair is cropped short, like every trainee's here, and his face is round and soft with youth. But there's an anger in his eyes that Peter finds intriguing, a spitting fury that could very well grow into a hellfire.

"Who is this?" Peter asks.

"One of our more stubborn students I'm afraid," Deaton explains, sounding very uncomfortable with Peter having witnessed this. "Sentinel Stilinski has been in isolation all week and it seems he is very interested in going back."

Stilinski's upper lip curls a second before another shock goes through him.

Peter steps toward the boy despite Deaton warning him to stay back. The guard hands over the taser wordlessly when Peter reaches for it, and Peter purposefully kneels next to Stilinski so that the Sentinel can watch as Peter turns off the electricity and detaches the electrodes. Stilinski doesn't move immediately, which is a surprise. He's wary and alert, already shivering off the effects of the taser, and Peter smiles down at him, amused and perhaps a little intrigued.

"You're quite the wild thing, aren't you?"

"Yeah so what?" Stilinski sneers.

"I'm looking for a Sentinel, and you need a Guide. Are you interested?"


	2. Peter/Stiles: Love Potion Shenanigans (Rating: PG)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stiles gets smacked with a love potion. Maybe. (And Peter is very unsettled by the whole experience.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was drunk on Inception!fic at the time of writing this. This was me trying to push my writing skills by trying to match the pacing of an Inception!fic that I desperately love and wish I had the skills to emulate.

Stiles is thoroughly disgruntled by the time he's brought back to Deaton's. "I'm fine," he insists. "It was just some glitter or whatever. I'm not even hurt."

Peter, for once, completely agrees with Stiles' self assessment. He looks perfectly fine. There's not a scratch on him, which is a far cry from the usual state Stiles ends up in on nights like these. But Stiles gives way when Scott insists, letting Deaton get a better look at him and describing in vague detail his encounter with the emissary that had been passing through Beacon Hills. 

Deaton takes all this information in stride, gently reminds them that he is a veterinarian and that future worries about Stiles' wellbeing should be taken to an appropriate physician -- or to Melissa McCall, at the very least -- and then asks if he can speak with Scott privately.

"You look worried," Stiles notes after Scott's followed Deaton and ordered Peter to keep an eye on Stiles. 

Abruptly, Peter realizes that he's tuning his senses to eavesdrop on what Deaton is saying to Scott, and he stops so that he'll at least have plausible deniability if he's interrogated by Scott later. Peter pushes away from the wall and purposefully comes closer, further from the temptation of listening in. 

Eyeing Peter carefully, Stiles asks, "Do you know something that I don't?"

"I know lots of things you don't," Peter replies. "Try to be more specific."

Stiles reaches to the end of the exam table and snags one of the wet wipes that Deaton left for him. He scrubs under his jaw, and the wipe comes away with a fine, pink gloss that catches the light. "I meant about this stuff," Stiles clarifies. "It could be a lot of things, yeah? I mean, maybe I'll wake up tomorrow without any memories."

"Or maybe you won't wake up at all," Peter feels inclined to point out.

Stiles wryly presses his lips together. "Thanks, Peter. You really know how to keep me looking on the bright side."

Peter rolls his eyes, propping his hip against the exam table. "I didn't realize I was your source of optimism. My mistake."

Stiles launches the wet wipe in the trash and then leans back on his hands with a sigh, kicking his feet back and forth with a palpable impatience. Peter fixates on a smudge of glittering pink along Stiles' temple, hidden along the hairline. It looks as if he got a few handfuls of -- whatever it was -- straight in the face. He imagines for a second the way Stiles must have reacted, flailing and sputtering in indignation, before the pack (and Peter) had found him unconscious on the ground. The amused smirk on his face draws a quizzical brow raise out of Stiles. 

"Okay, seriously though," Stiles starts, leaning toward Peter. "No ideas?"

Peter hums. He doesn't, really. Emissaries are not his forte, but he's curious. The emissary would only have thrown the dust at Stiles if it was meant to do something. It was only a matter of poking and prodding and waiting for Peter to discover what that purpose was. Though the emissary may have only meant to make Stiles sleep, the possibilities are endless.

"You don't feel any different than usual?" Peter asks.

Stiles tilts his head to the side, inadvertently baring his throat to Peter, drawing his gaze. "Not really. A little annoyed, maybe, but that's pretty typical on any night when you're in my general vicinity. I want to know what Deaton is telling Scott," he says, looking pointedly to the door. "I can't hear them the way you could."

Peter listens to Stiles' heartbeat instead of Scott's more alarmed whispering. It beats steadily in Peter's ears. It's something that Peter's been doing more and more lately, ever since Derek and Cora left. No longer could he conveniently wait for his nephew to pry information out of Stiles and Scott in his stead. He's had to play along, quietly catch Stiles in his lies (or, more often, his careful omissions of truth), and act accordingly when no one was looking. By now, Stiles' honest heartbeat is a familiar rhythm that Peter could pace himself against.

"I'm sure if it's important, Scott will tell you soon enough," Peter says. 

It's a lie, through and through. Since the Nogitsune, Scott's been playing everything a lot closer to the chest, especially when it's important. Being best friends hasn't always been enough for Stiles to get Scott to talk.

"How faithful," Stiles comments dryly. "Still trying to worm your way into Scott's good graces?"

Peter's mouth twists. "Hardly. I'm just not interested in being a tool in your arsenal."

The grin Stiles angles at him is sly, and the look in his eyes makes Peter pause for a moment. "Oh but Peter," Stiles says, nudging Peter's shoulder with his own. "You're my favorite tool of all."

Stiles chuckles to himself -- probably thinking himself hilarious -- and Peter manfully refrains from sighing heavily. As clever as Stiles can be, Peter is often hard pressed to see anything beyond how ridiculously young he is. No matter how traumatic his childhood's become, he's still a teenager. While he can forget now and then, the truth is that the only hilarious thing Peter can think of is how all the power he longs to wield is in the hands of people who are half his age.

"If you're so eager to listen in, I'm not going to stop you from trying," Peter says with a flick of his fingers toward the door. "Better to hear the truth straight from Deaton's mouth than getting the filtered version from Scott."

Naturally, Peter doesn't expect Stiles to do anything of the sort. As reckless as he can get -- usually when Peter least wants him to be -- Stiles is frankly allergic to doing anything that might have been suggested by Peter. Given a choice between actually finding out what Deaton and Scott are talking about and lying on the exam table to hypothesize to his heart's content, Stiles would most likely sprawl out and natter on just to annoy Peter. 

Peter braces himself for a diatribe of possibilities, each more ludicrous than the last. He's had a long day as it is. He'd rather not spend the last hours of it listening to Stiles entertain the idea that he'll wake up in the morning as a cat -- or a girl, or a coffee maker.

Instead, Stiles kicks off the edge of the table, sneakers squeaking when they hit the concrete. "You're right," he says.

Peter's only half listening, which is why he's already pulling out a well worn script from the back of his mind by the time Stiles is striding past him to the door. "Have some faith in your alpha, Stiles. I'm sure he only has the--" Peter grinds to a halt, and he twists around to give Stiles' back a narrow eyed stare. "Say that again."

Of everyone left in Beacon Hills, Stiles has always been the most difficult to work with. He's not impossible to manipulate, but he's got a mind as sharp as his father's. Peter's had to put some truly creative twists on the truth to make himself appear trustworthy with Stiles lurking over his shoulder like a particularly suspicious hawk. More than once, Stiles' argumentative nature has tempted Peter to sweep his plans into the dirt and get the immediate satisfaction of sinking his teeth in the boy's throat.

"Scott likes to think he knows what's best for me, but I'd rather know all the facts, thanks," Stiles tells him in a hush voice, seemingly unaware of how Peter is staring at him. He presses his ear up against the door and listens for a moment before slumping. "I can't hear a damn thing. Are you sure they're close enough?"

A niggling hypothesis climbs to the front of Peter's brain. "Why not open the door and see for yourself?" he says lightly, wondering if Stiles is so open to suggestion that he'd do just that.

"Why should I?" Stiles retorts as he scuffs his shoe near the door before apparently giving up. He bumps up against Peter as he hauls himself onto the exam table again, unaware that he's just made Peter toss aside several theories about the emissary's dust. "If I ask very nicely, would you do the listening for me?"

"What's in it for me?"

Stiles smiles crookedly. "I'm sure I'll think of something," he says, and next thing Peter knows, Stiles is kissing him.

It's a soft kiss -- gentle. Peter can feel Stiles' half-smile curving against his mouth, the easy way his fingers lay against the back of Peter's neck. Stiles draws back by a breath, and Peter stays very still, listening to the way Stiles' heart beats with the same steady pace that it has been for the last however long.

The door opens. Scott's footsteps skid to a halt. "Stiles?"

Stiles jerks back. His fingers squeeze Peter's nape for a split second before-- "Shit."

||

The horrified expression on Stiles' face is entirely unfair considering Peter had zero say in the whole kissing thing, but whatever snarky remark Peter wants to say is set aside when Stiles shoves away from the exam table. Peter is pretty sure that he should be offended by the frantic shouting match between Scott and Stiles, but he leans back to enjoy the show regardless.

(He crosses his arms to stop himself from touching his mouth, but that doesn't stop Peter's tongue from snaking out across his lower lip. It doesn't keep him from being absolutely certain that he can he can taste Stiles, still.)

Stiles has always been a hit or miss as far as readable body language goes. It's taken Peter time to recognize the way that Stiles shoves through fear with a stony aggressiveness -- a kind of _fuck you_ to the universe that makes him press his face up against the grate separating him from a rabid alpha or chase down an emissary before the rest of the pack has been able to catch up.

He separates his emotions into categories: safe, and dangerous. Anything that's safe to show -- feelings that don't matter in the short term -- are expressed as natural extensions of his body. A smile, a hug, or flashes of irritation or hatred. Everything else -- the big things, the weaknesses of love and loyalty -- are all bottled up and hidden away until the only thing Peter can do is surmise the truth from the patterns in his actions.

It's bizarre and interesting to have Stiles shooting him nervous glances in the midst of his argument with Scott, and when Stiles catches him looking back, it becomes yet more interesting as Stiles flushes deeply. Peter feels his eyes widen, and in the next second, Stiles puts his back to Peter to jab a finger at Deaton.

"Tell me you have an idea of how to fix this," he hisses at Deaton -- so audibly unsettled that Peter wants to pin him down, watch all his secrets squirm unbidden to the surface.

If Deaton balks at being addressed so suddenly, it doesn't show. His voice is perfectly even when he replies cryptically, "It's difficult to say."

"Fantastic," Stiles snaps waspishly. "If you leave me like _this_ \--" here, he gestures erratically at himself with both hands, "I swear to god, I'll make your life a living hell."

Deaton isn't the least bit perturbed. "I promise to keep it a priority," he says.

"Good. Okay. That's-- that's all I want," Stiles says, slumping finally. He gives Peter a furtive look over his shoulder and straightens right back up. "Alright, well. I'm going to lock myself in my bedroom until the antidote happens. Bye."

Peter watches Stiles bolt and is nothing short of fascinated. Once Stiles is gone, though, he raises his hand and smiles innocently when Deaton and Scott level him with the same, even look. "I confess," he says, "I have no idea what's going on."

||

Scott tells Peter that the pink dust was sort of like a love powder thing, but he sounds doubtful as he explains it. His heartbeat is steady, but Deaton's in the depths of his clinic and unable to corroborate with Scott's story.

Peter's never heard of anyone being able to make a love potion -- or love powder, or anything that might induce false emotions in a person -- but it's also not a field that he looks into often. He never needed help getting a partner before the fire, and since then, Peter's never had the urge to go looking. For all he knows, a bunch of glittery pink powder could have made Stiles fall in love with him, and it's mildly distressing how uneasy the idea makes him feel.

|| 

Presumably because Scott spreads the embarrassing word, Derek calls to make sure that Peter doesn't have any plans to take advantage of Stiles' vulnerable state. Peter wants to mention that he could lie about his intentions (he doesn't have any) and Derek would never be the wiser through the shitty microphone in his cell phone. He also wants to laugh really hard at Derek for thinking that Peter would even want to take advantage of Stiles.

For all that he recognizes that Stiles might be moderately attractive to some of his peers, Peter also has the distinct memory of Stiles being one of the people responsible for setting him on fire for the second time. Even if Peter were the type to be interested in mouthy twinks (and he isn't), he has no interest in sleeping with -- or having a relationship with (whatever, Derek) -- someone who has the Sheriff, Lydia Martin, _and_ the True Alpha on speed dial.

(Not that he's wholly immune, of course. Stiles is attractive and maybe there's been a time or two that Peter's thought about shutting him up in a way that would be fun -- well, fun for Peter anyway.)

The point is that Peter is more than capable of showing restraint in this situation. If Derek is going to be worried about anyone's actions, it should be Stiles'.

||

Stiles’ antidote has to wait until Deaton manages to scrounge up more information. Meanwhile, Peter figures, that’s the end of it for him. Even if Stiles is holed up in his house – perhaps doing something as agonizingly pathetic as planning his and Peter’s wedding – then at least he’ll be doing it somewhere out of Peter’s sight. The next time he sets eyes on Stiles, the antidote will have been found by then, and everyone will have moved on with their lives. Peter won’t have to make any uncomfortable adjustments whatsoever to tiptoe around Stiles’... _feelings_ so that he can stay on good terms with the pack. Better to stay out of the way than accidentally break Stiles' heart and set Scott off on a vengeful rampage.

Peter manages three whole days of peace before his downstairs neighbor decides to summon a troll without realizing quite how large trolls can be. After a ruckus wherein the troll busts through the outside wall of the apartment complex and flees into the night, four a.m. finds Peter packing up a small suitcase and skirting around the edges of the massive hole in his living room floor. He explains to anyone who asks that -- whatever his neighbor had been up to -- it had certainly sounded like an explosion, but there had also been a lot of screeching and growling, and do you suppose his neighbor was the sort of man to stick explosives in helpless creatures? What a shame. He’d been so nice whenever Peter spoke to him.

He raises his hand cheerfully toward his neighbor and smiles as the man is taken under custody for suspicion of animal abuse and domestic terrorism. He notices but does not react to the way Sheriff Stilinski watches him with the same suspicious air as his son. Peter’s rather certain, after all, that he hasn’t done anything in the last three days to deserve it – at least, not that the Sheriff would know.

Crashing at a motel for the night is less than ideal, but his other option had been Derek's old loft and frankly, Peter doesn't like going back there when he can help it. The motel room is cheap and smells like bleach. Peter spends the night staring at the ceiling and listening to the soft sounds of the humans sleeping on every side of him -- their deep inhales and slow exhales, the rock and creak of bed springs, the unintelligible murmur of a television that's been left on. It's white noise, all of it. What Peter gets that night is not quite rest, not quite sleep. He hasn't been able to sleep since the coma -- not that it matters. He had six years of nightmarish stillness, locked inside a body that wouldn't move and couldn't heal fast enough. Peter has no interest in seeing what his dreams would be like now.

Naturally, Peter rises in the late morning in a sour mood, too aware that he's not in his normal space -- that the air around him is entirely too sterile to belong to him. He has a headache almost as soon as the sun hits his face, but he puts on some sunglasses, orders a coffee from the nearest cafe, and drives back to his apartment to survey the damage the troll's done to his home.

There's a scattering of gawkers across the street and a section of the parking lot drawn off for the construction crew. Peter wishes he were surprised to see a blue Jeep nearby, but he isn't. Peter drives past the apartment complex at a slow crawl and parks a couple blocks away to give himself some time to search for Stiles from a distance. He'd rather avoid that confrontation if he can.

As expected, Stiles is lurking in the back of the crowd, staring up at the sizable hole that the troll left in the side of the building. It's been covered to protect the apartment from the weather, which Peter appreciates. Peter wonders why Stiles is here -- if his purpose is to assess the situation and report back to Scott. Scott would probably be relieved if Peter turned up dead.

But as Peter watches -- from halfway down the block and across the street, leaning against a light post with his coffee and doing his best to appear unobtrusive -- Stiles frowns, just a little. He looks exhausted -- the kind of which Peter hasn't observed since the Nogitsune. Stiles could be drawn in gaunt lines and shadows with the tired smudges under his eyes and the tense way he grinds his teeth, jaw rotating like he's chewing on the inside of his cheek or on his tongue.

Stiles' gaze drops down to eye-level again, scanning the crowd with a jittery lack of focus. He's searching for something. Automatically, Peter drops back a little, but Stiles' attention snaps to him at the movement. Stiles' expression immediately brightens, all previous weariness taking a backseat to the relieved smile that spreads across his face, and Peter quickly downs the last of his coffee, feeling an uncomfortable twinge in his chest that's probably indigestion. 

He doesn't wait for Stiles to make his way across the street. Instead he makes a beeline for his landlord's office and shuts the door behind him before Stiles can do anything -- especially make conversation. Derek would probably call him a coward, but Peter prefers pragmatic, thank you. 

Peter chats with his landlord long enough to make himself a nuisance. He gets an estimate on how long repairs will take and permission to get some more of his things from his apartment, and then ignores his landlord's first few hints to leave by making nosy conspiracy theories about the possible causes behind the "explosion". By the time his landlord looks suitably irritated, a half hour has passed. Surely that's long enough for Stiles to have lost his patience with waiting.

When Peter steps out, however, Stiles is sitting on one of the benches outside the office. Stiles rises to his feet and approaches hesitantly. Clearly Peter's underestimated the punch that a love potion can have.

"You're not hurt, are you?" Stiles asks and then seems to want to pull the words right back. He closes his eyes, visibly trying to control himself. "I meant… That was a stupid question."

"Yes," Peter agrees dryly and glances longingly at the stairs.

When he looks back, Stiles has his hands shoved in his pockets, his head ducked to hide the remarkable blush that's creeping along his hairline. Even if the blush wasn't a dead give away, Stiles' heartbeat would be, pounding so hard that Peter feels his headache getting worse by the second.

"So, I guess you must have seen what did this, since it wrecked your place and all," Stiles ventures awkwardly.

"Mmm," Peter says, not budging an inch. Where other people would turn an inch into a mile, Stiles would turn it into ten. If Stiles wants information, he'll have to take it.

"Right," Stiles says after a moment of uncomfortable silence. He scrubs his hand against the side of his neck, where -- Peter can't help noticing -- the blush is so deep that it hides the scattering of moles. He twists toward the door, and Peter watches him get a few steps before he swivels right back around. "Look," he snaps. "I get that this is uncomfortable for you--"

"This?"

Stiles waves his hands between them. "The thing. You know what I'm talking about. Don't play dumb. It's not attractive."

"I didn't think I needed to be attractive when it came to you," Peter retorts, irritated.

Stiles scowls, but amazingly, also looks away. "I guess not," he mutters.

"I'll make it easy on you," Peter says with an ugly sort of calm. Stiles looks up at him, hopeful but guarded. "I'm not coming anywhere near you until Deaton's antidote is made."

The hurt is immediate, and the anger, gratifyingly familiar. But when Stiles fights for control -- with disturbing difficulty -- Peter has to tell himself that he's only imagining the resignation he sees in Stiles' features before his expression is wiped clean.

"Good. That's all I wanted to know."

It's a lie. Peter can _hear_ that it's a lie, and isn't that curious, coming from a boy who's been forced to be infatuated with him? But before Peter can think to press harder, Stiles is already tripping out of the building as quickly as his heartbeat.

||

Peter keeps his fingers crossed that it's the last that he sees of Stiles until everything has passed, but doesn't get his hopes up. The troll remains elusive -- an impressive feat, considering its size. In the meantime, Peter's apartment gets fixed, so now he can stare at his own ceiling when he wants to pretend he's asleep instead of the blank canvas that the motel gave him.

What he doesn't expect is Scott.

"Hey," says Scott, easy as anything, as if he isn't giving Peter an uncertain once-over as soon as he opens the door. "We should talk."

"Shocking," Peter replies, stepping back to let Scott in. 

Scott hesitates for a moment before crossing the threshold. He takes in the state of the apartment in a single, sweeping look, but by the time Peter's shut the door behind him, Scott is facing him again because -- Peter suspects -- he doesn't like having his back to Peter. It's smart of him, even if that unconscious suspicion makes things harder for Peter.

Peter opens his hands and smiles in as friendly a manner as he can muster. "So, what does our local alpha want to talk about?"

It can't be good, whatever it is. Scott rarely turns to Peter for help of his own volition. Those few times he has, it had been because Stiles had been out of commission for some reason.

Scott has the decency to look a tad sheepish before he spits out the words that Peter is silently dreading. "It's Stiles," he says. Peter pretends to be surprised. "He's not doing well."

Peter crosses his arms. "And what did you think I could do about that?"

"I just thought, with the spell and all, you might be able to help him," Scott suggests. "I don't think he's handling it well. You know how he gets when he thinks he's backed in a corner. He tends to get…" 

Kindness and friendship make Scott pause, wanting to choose his description more carefully, but Peter doesn't have those kinds of reservations. "Drastic," he offers, "and a possible liability."

Scott's mouth thins. "I was going to say short-tempered, but yeah. Those things too."

"So what, you think that because some emissary made Stiles think that he's in love with me, I can sweep in and fix all of Stiles' problems?" Peter asks. "You should know better. Even real love doesn't work like that."

Frowning, Scott takes a step toward him. His eyes are red. "Here's the deal. I need Stiles, and right now, Stiles needs you, whether he likes it or not," Scott says. Then he takes a deep breath. "If you help Stiles, that would go a long way in making me feel comfortable with you in my pack."

The idea of submitting to the wolf he created grates on Peter's nerves. It must show.

"You've been wanting in for a while," Scott says. "Deaton says that with Derek and Cora gone, you're going to be worrying about becoming an omega soon. That's all. Think about it."

It's not a promise of membership or anything, but it's all Scott leaves him with in the end.

||

It's his second night back in his own home and the air still smells like the rapid construction that had taken place. It's almost as irritating as the sterility of the motel room, which is probably why Peter's thankful when his phone rings. It's probably Derek -- or maybe even Cora. They like to check on him now and then, make sure he hasn't murdered anyone they know.

When he picks up his phone, however, the number is unfamiliar.

"Hello?"

"Hi -- um."

Peter would recognize that voice anywhere, no matter how flustered and small it sounds on the other end of the line. He's not sure how Stiles got his number, but he isn't alarmed by it either. Stiles is the type to dig his fingers in where they don't belong. It's possible that all he'd had to do was ask Cora or Derek for it. They would get a kick out of this situation if they knew.

Peter wonders if Scott told him about their conversation. If that's the reason why Stiles is calling. Maybe it's up to Peter to give an opening. "Is something wrong?" he asks.

"No, everything's -- I just. I didn't mean to-- god this sucks," Stiles says.

Peter is pretty sure that he's going to be continually surprised at how a love spell makes Stiles behave. "You didn't mean to call me?" 

Stiles clicks his tongue. "Not really, but also yes? I wasn't thinking. It was an impulse. Kind of."

"Kind of an impulse," Peter echoes dryly. It's interesting what that might mean.

"Don't go looking into it or anything," Stiles tells him with a sour edge to his words. "Go back to whatever it was you were doing since _obviously_ it wasn't sleeping. It won't happen again."

"Stiles," he says quickly before Stiles can hang up on him. "What I said before…"

"You mean about how we shouldn't be around each other while I'm still--" Stiles cuts himself off and sighs, perhaps frustrated with himself. "It's fine."

Peter rubs a knuckle between his brows. He doesn't have to hear Stiles' heartbeat to know that's a lie. He has a crystal clear memory of Stiles' face from when they'd last spoken. It's no wonder he's so defensive. Thinking about Scott's earlier offer, Peter changes tactics: "If you get another impulse, it's fine. You can call me, if that's what you want."

God. Peter isn't even sure he believes himself, so he's not sure how Stiles will react. What a pathetic attempt.

On his end, Stiles sniffs. "Fine. Whatever," he says gruffly and hangs up.

||

Stiles is haggard. He's moody and irritable. Peter doesn't want to deal with it. He considers it pretty impressive that they're in the same room, but Scott gives Peter the stink eye until he tries to make casual conversation and gets the brunt of Stiles' temper for his trouble. Considering he's used to arguing with Stiles, it's manageable, but every time Peter lets the argument go, knowing Scott will be angry if he doesn't, Stiles pouts for the rest of the day.

It's aggravating, but at least Peter isn't the only one Stiles is short with. Peter gets to walk in on half a dozen conversations where Stiles is snapping at Deaton. It's really satisfying to see Deaton's face scrunch up when Stiles demands to know what good he is if he can't break a simple love spell. Deaton glances at Scott and then at Peter -- as if Peter's going to offer any help when he's enjoying himself so much -- before tiredly explaining the difficulty of love spells. Stiles sits about halfway through it before storming off.

Peter follows sedately, out of curiosity more than anything else. He finds Stiles leaning against the tires of his Jeep in the parking lot, eyes closed as he taps the back of his head against the door panel. He turns at Peter's approach and frowns.

"Did Scott send you after me?" he asks.

"Would it matter, if he did?" Peter replies, crouching down so that they're eye level. It's not often that Peter tries to make himself less intimidating, which is probably why Stiles gives him a strange look. "You look like you could use the company."

Stiles laughs a little. "Now I know you're a liar. I definitely don't look anything like that. Besides, just because you want to be a part of Scott's pack, doesn't mean you have to do everything that he says."

"It really does," Peter says and leans against the Jeep next to Stiles, surreptitiously observing him out of the corner of his eye. 

He looks tired most of the time, like he's sleeping about as much as Peter does but without the benefit of werewolf healing to keep him looking healthy. He could probably huff and puff and Stiles would be asleep before he could think about exhaling.

"I can't think. I can't _sleep_ ," Stiles grumbles, leaning into Peter's shoulder. "It's taking everything I have to just be normal. It's like the Nogitsune all over again. The only plus side is that I'm not going out killing a bunch of people." His eyes are closed, his breathing is getting deeper. "I think everything's fine, and next thing I know, you're all up in here." He gestures vaguely at his own head. "Should probably just lock me up somewhere and throw away the key until Deaton gets this all figured out. _If_ he ever figures this all out."

"Maybe you should make the best out of the cards you've been given," Peter says.

"Make the best of it, huh," Stiles echoes, but when Peter looks at him, Stiles is asleep, lashes fanned out against his cheekbones.

Peter doesn't move until Scott comes out of the clinic to gather Stiles and bundle him home. He pretends he doesn't see Scott's grateful expression. He simply gives Stiles' shoulder a squeeze and shuts the door behind him before rapping his knuckles against the hood of the Jeep so Scott knows it's okay to start driving. Stiles rouses just enough to ask what time it is, and waggles his fingers at Peter with a soft smile. He's nodded off again before Scott has even turned the engine.

||

Stiles calls him a second time, a couple nights later. He seems flustered when Peter picks up, cursing and halfway through an excuse before Peter can say hello. Peter looks at his bedside clock. It's just past two in the morning.

"Isn't it a school night?" Peter asks with a sly lilt.

Stiles makes affronted noise. "Please," he strains with a soft whisper. "Don't make this any creepier than it is."

"Oh but this is perfect," Peter replies, smiling despite himself. "Young boys calling me in the middle of the night is a dream of mine." Stiles' muffled laugh comes across as a sigh in his ear. "Did you have a reason for calling, Stiles, or did you just want to tell me what you're wearing?"

The response isn't immediate. Surprising, considering how Stiles doesn't seem capable of holding back much these days. Peter hears him lick his lips, then: "Are you just teasing me? Are you just trying to--" Stiles takes an unsteady breath. "--make the most of the cards we've been dealt?"

Peter isn't sure, if he's honest with himself. He is curious now to see how far he can push this. If he recalls correctly, a Stiles in love is highly manipulable, willing to do whatever he could for the sake of the target of his affections. Perhaps his discomfort at being the focus has caused him to set this opportunity aside too quickly.

"Nevermind," Stiles cuts in when Peter is apparently silent for too long, but he doesn't say anything more. He doesn't seem inclined to hang up either. He stays on the line, quiet and listening to Peter breathe.

Offering an out for them both, Peter says, "Have you and Scott managed to find anything on the troll yet?"

"No," Stiles drawls, annoyed. "You'd think something that large would be easier to find, right? Shouldn't it be doing damage all over town? Trolls can't shrink, can they? You'd tell us if they could."

"I might. I might not." Peter enjoys knowing more than Stiles. Having information withheld from him makes Stiles entertaining. "What will you give me if I tell you about trolls?"

Stiles scoffs. "You probably don't know anything. How do I know what I'm paying for?"

"Not a gambler? You haven't even offered anything yet."

"I doubt you want anything that I have," Stiles mumbles. 

"I'll be fair. Information for information," Peter says. "Tell me about those impulses of yours. The ones that have you calling me at night. And I'll tell you how to find your troll."

Stiles' response is surprisingly prompt. "Okay," he says. "Why not?"

Peter makes himself comfortable against the headboard of his bed. "You first."

"I think about you sometimes."

"At night."

"Yes, at night," Stiles hisses. "It's not a big deal, usually. I'm just curious about you."

"About me?" Peter can't help being a little flattered, can't help prodding Stiles a little. "I'm an open book. What could you possibly be curious about?"

"Everything," Stiles sighs sincerely. "I mean, cause you stayed. You could have left with your family but you didn't. And because I ... Look, it doesn't matter why. I just do and so I think about asking you stuff even though I know you'll never tell me anything."

On his end of the call, Stiles sounds like he's breathing hard, like his confession had taken a lot out of him. 

"Sorry," Stiles mutters quietly.

"Don't worry about it," Peter says, though he's not sure if he's talking more to Stiles or to himself. "It's just the spell."

"Yeah," he replies, though he doesn't sound reassured. "Anyway, about the troll."

Peter tells what little he knows about how the troll got into Beacon Hills. Northern California isn't the natural habitat for any troll species that he knows. Trolls are big, bulky, and anti-social as a whole, so aside from the collateral damage created as it fights its way to more open areas, they can probably expect that the troll won't be causing any problems.

||

And basically , the idea is that the spell was actually just supposed to decrease Stiles' inhibitions, since he was easily the most reckless-slash-murder-happy of the humans, and the Emissary had hoped that it would cause a rift between the McCall Pack and what remained of the Hale Pack, blah blah werewolf politics or some such. More importantly, Peter would have Stiles as an open book to him, with Stiles completely unable -- or unwilling?? -- to keep secrets from him, and at first he thinks it's all in good fun and gosh, why not take advantage of this opportunity to make Stiles and Scott indebted to him? 

Except it becomes like Stockholm Syndrome and Peter finds himself in the unfortunate position of actually becoming _fond_ of Stiles -- GASP HORROR. Anyway, _love_ ~


	3. Danny/Stiles: Stiles gets a makeover (Rating: R)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Imagine this: Peter is like Stiles' fairy godmother. Or more like the Mean Girl that takes Stiles under his wing for an epic makeover that will change Stiles' life forever.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for some possibly triggering behavior with Stiles/Matt Daehler. Matt coerces Stiles into situations without fully informing him of his intentions and makes unwanted sexual advances. 
> 
> Happy ending though! Everything turns out alright!

So imagine that the fic opens up on Stiles getting a drink splashed on him because Danny accidentally ran into him. That whole incident is what starts Peter off on a shopping spree because Peter is, ONCE AGAIN, BEING CREEPY AND WEIRD. He's the dude that is seriously appearance-focused. Remember how he was about skin (whether it was his own or Allison's!) and how he picked out Allison's dress for winter formal. 

Regardless! Suddenly Peter is giving Stiles' entire wardrobe an overhaul. Peter throws all of Stiles' clothes into the middle of the room and threatens to burn them. Stiles clutches them to his chest in huge armfuls, saying that it will never happen. But Peter manages to slowly coerce Stiles into dressing better because the sight of his baggy everything physically pains Peter's soul. In the end, Stiles is dressing better and starts becoming a bit more noticed by the student body -- different people. People that wouldn't have paid him attention before, they start talking to Stiles. They want to sit next to him at lunch. They ask if he's busy this weekend and does he want to go to a party.

Stiles is, of course, ecstatic. He's wrapping all up on Scott and going, "OH MY GOD I GOT INVITED TO A PARTY. YOU'RE COMING WITH ME RIGHT? LOOK AT MY HANDS, DUDE. I'M SHAKING."

But at these parties, of course, there's the usual suspects. Lydia is a lot sweeter on Stiles than ever before. She's still dedicated to Jackson, though she's happy to introduce him to whoever he likes. Jackson, of course, is begrudgingly nice to Stiles, and gives him approving once overs. 

But Danny. 

Danny sort of rolls his eyes and doesn't say hi and is kind of cold and snarky about Stiles being at the party. Does Stiles even know how to handle himself in this kind of crowd?

Stiles is offput, of course, after weeks of people being unexpectedly nice to him, but he's also sort of dismayed. He's never been on Danny's radar before, and if nice clothes mean that Danny's just going to mean about it, maybe Danny really _does_ hate him.

But Danny's being a bit of a dick because he's worried that Stiles is going to get caught up in the superficial world that everyone else in this school is. Danny's gonna stop seeing that annoying talkative kid that nags at him in class. Instead, he's gonna get someone who is a great deal like Jackson -- insecure and desperate for the attention that he only seems to get when he dresses perfectly and acts perfectly and isn't what he used to be.

So Danny says things like: "This doesn't suit you," to Stiles as he tugs on the lapel of some clean cut suit jacket. 

||

UGH IT'D BE LIKE THE DEVIL WEARS PRADA where the devil is Peter, but also a bit like the princess diaries so that Stiles can say, "I think you saw me when no one else did." to Danny.

Obviously, Stiles should make out with someone who is not Danny and is skeezy. So what if Matt.

||

Matt is all like, "You really photograph well, do you mind?" and then starts taking pictures of Stiles. He smiles like the asshole creeper he is and says, "I may be on the lacrosse team but I'm a journalist at heart. It's hard for me to overlook such a rising star on our campus."  
He says, "You've basically taken over the school overnight, you realize that right? All you had to do was change a few of your clothes. Imagine what you could do if you changed other parts of your appearance."

Stiles is flattered and intrigued, tentatively at first. Matt backs off a little -- because he's sort of like a fisherman, teasing his catch with bait. Stiles agrees to let Matt take some pictures of him while they're hanging out in the backyard at a party. 

Of course Jackson has a gazebo or something similar. Stiles is hanging out there because he'd gotten kind of bored of the same party over and over and over, so might as well let Matt get some photographic evidence of how awesome he is.

But then Matt asks, "Could you maybe, bite your lips for me?" and explains that it makes Stiles' mouth look more plush. and Stiles goes, "Like this?" and chews on his lip for a little bit.

Matt's like, "no--" kind of laughing. "Go like--" and he sucks his own bottom lip into his mouth with his teeth digging in a little harder. "You see?" 

Stiles raises a brow. "Seriously? You're not just playing me, are you? Cause that looks kind of stupid."

"I swear," Matt promises, grinning and snaps a couple pictures. "It makes you look like you've just been kissed."

"If you say so," Stiles agrees.

"I'll show you, okay?" Then Matt kisses Stiles, not letting Stiles jerk away so easily, sucking and nipping at Stiles' lower lip with more roughness than Stiles had been prepared for. Stiles shoves him away and Matt huffs a laugh as he goes, saying, "Sorry, sorry. I know I should've asked."

"What the fuck, man," Stiles grouses, wiping at his mouth, and throws up a warding hand when Matt's camera flash goes off a couple more times.

Then Danny to the rescue! A bit late, but still welcome. He takes the camera away from Matt with a surprise swipe, and Stiles watches as Danny holds the camera out of Matt's reach, as he flips through the pictures with a whistle and starts deleting them, one by one.

Matt scrambles to reach it, jumping for the strap that Danny's wound around his fist. Matt punches Danny in the stomach, but Danny takes it like a pro and says, "Watch it, Matt. Wouldn't want me to drop your very very expensive equipment." 

Matt is spouting off bullshit like, "We're in the middle of a photoshoot, asshole. Give me the camera back!"

Danny shrugs as he tosses the camera back to Matt. "Whatever." He doesn't care because he's already found and deleted all of Stiles' pictures.

Then Danny plops down next to Stiles on the benches, throws an arm over the railing. "Go on then," Danny goads him. "Take your damn pictures." 

Matt scowls and storms off. Stiles would be relieved but Danny's arm is still along his shoulders. He's stuck in a moment of quiet and hyper-aware of everything Danny's doing. Stiles tentatively looks over.

"You should be more careful, especially around Matt," Danny says. "I thought you of all people would understand that not everyone is what they seem."

Danny pulls his arm back, hesitates, and then he pinches the edge of Stiles' collar between his fingers -- tugging it. "Maybe you should head home early. Matt won't be happy that I interrupted his photoshoot." Danny says the last word with a hint of sarcasm. He hides it well.

Stiles does go home. He sleeps restlessly, and when he wakes up the next morning, it's to a lifestyle crisis. He's managed to keep about half of his old wardrobe from Peter's clutches. Though the baggy shirts and some of the looser jeans are gone, he's still got some of his old gear around. He sets out two outfits. 

One is Peter approved: buttoned shirts and stripes and a jacket that actually fits Stiles' shoulders, khaki pants and monk shoes -- ones with the buckles instead of laces that Stiles is still trying to break in. 

The other that is all Stiles' old stuff: a t shirt and a thick brown leather jacket, jeans that are wide around the leg, and ragged sneakers. 

It's not that Stiles doesn't like the new stuff or hates the old. He's even come to appreciate the way that these new clothes frame him. He sits in front of these two options before school. He wonders if he's been blind to the third option that's actually available -- preferable even. He ends up going to school with the button down over his t-shirt, with the jeans instead of the khakis, sneakers instead of the monk shoes. with the fitted jacket instead of the leather coat. 

The school's abuzz at the change, to be honest. It's like that first day all over again, and when he gets to the first class, Lydia bursts in almost on Stiles' heels. Danny's already there, of course.

"I didn't believe it when I heard it, but it really is true, isn't it?" Lydia says as she puts her hand on Stiles' desk. "You've reverted to form."

"Not entirely," Stiles says, flicking his fingers at the zipper of the jacket. "Still got this thing. I thought you said that the jacket made the outfit?"

"That was the other outfit," Lydia says. She flips aside Stiles' button down to expose the truly geeky nature of his t-shirt. "What's this?"

"Uhm," Stiles says, raising a brow. "Transformers?"

"Good movies," Jackson idly murmurs off to the side. (Lydia hisses at him. Jackson sort of rolls over and hides.)

"Well you're not wearing that to the party this weekend," Lydia announces with an edge of finality.

"Sure," Stiles agrees. "I'll even let you pick out what I wear if you want."

Lydia straightens up. "really?"

"Yeah," Stiles says. "Deal?"

She smiles, tapping her nails across his desk. "I guess you can still sit with us at lunch then," she says and then drifts away.

Danny moves his stuff to another chair, nudges Stiles' shoulder as he passes, drops a word into Stiles' ear too. "Smooth," he says.

||

Anyway the point is that there are people that Stiles has learned will pay attention to him purely because of his appearance, and there are people that will pay attention to him regardless, like Scott and Allison. Lydia and Jackson sway back and forth, obviously preferring it when Stiles looks good, but not minding when Stiles cuts down to comfy clothing entirely. 

Then there's Danny. 

||

When Stiles shows up to the party that weekend in the clothes that Lydia picked out for him, Stiles knows that he looks good. Like damn good -- better than the half assed coordination that Stiles had attempted when Peter let him pick. He's self consciously aware of how he's turning heads left right and center as he walks through the house.

He's looking for Danny, just a little bit -- wondering if he's here, wondering what he'll think of Stiles in this get up. Because let's face it, Stiles feels a little ridiculous looking this good. 

Matt gets in Stiles' path just as he spots Danny by the door to the back patio. He gives Stiles a long look from head to toe that makes Stiles' skin crawl. The first words out of Matt's mouth certainly don't help: "Hey, you're looking... Wow, spectacular tonight."

||

And while Stiles is fighting off the creepy-crawlies, Matt gets up close and personal and there are a lot of proprietary near touches around Stiles' face

||

Stiles tries working around him, but Matt is persistent. "Whaddya say we try that photoshoot again, huh? Cause Jesus, you're smoking right now." He's all smiles.

Stiles finally has to grab Matt by the shoulders and physically move Matt out of his path, saying, "Whaddya say you fuck off and die, alright?" He gives Matt a perfectly fake, perfectly polite smile. "Toodles." 

So Stiles escapes, and behind him, he hears a shout and then Lydia's voice rising above the commotion of the party. "Oh god, I'm sorry. I'm such a klutz. Did it get all over your camera?" Her voice is dripping with insincerity. 

And now, Stiles is free to give chase -- free to find Danny in the kitchen, getting a drink from the guy that fancies himself a bartender.

Except that Danny turns around with a drink in his hand and runs into Stiles, spills his drink across Stiles' exceptionally well picked clothes. It's exactly like the incident that started this whole wardrobe, high school makeover thing in the first place. And there are apologies being sputtered all around, and Danny's got this wide eyed kind of surprise written on his face as he uses a towel to help dry Stiles off, but Stiles is just laughing, half in hysterics.

Danny's incredulous. "What's so funny?" he asks -- but nervously.

"Nothing, nothing, it's just--" Stiles smiles a little. "I spent a lot of time with Lydia today picking out clothes so that I'd look good tonight but... You don't actually give a shit about what I wear at all, do you?"

||

And maybe the party's at Danny's house this time, and maybe by this point, Danny's taken Stiles upstairs to see if they can get him extra clothes, help him clean up and so on

And so Stiles is laughing and looking at Danny with a soft bemusement while he dabs ineffectually at the wet stain on his shirt. The fabric is clinging to his chest, and Danny's determined not to look while he searches around for clothes that will be small enough for Stiles.

When he finds them, he holds up them up against Stiles' body. "Maybe these would fit you?" and then Stiles starts unbuttoning his cuffs, his shirt…

Danny abruptly begins making motions like he's gonna just leave Stiles to get changed in private.

Stiles has to stop him. "Dude, you're killing me here."

Danny's completely caught off guard. "What?"

Stiles finishes unbuttoning his shirt. He drops it off his shoulders, pulls it off his arms, and then lays it across a chair with the little towel. He covers Danny's hand, the one that's holding the t-shirts.

"I'm trying to flirt with you or something, and now you're gonna run? At least give me some kind of feedback. I already know the clothes aren't cutting it, so maybe... Am I doing something wrong? What's it gonna take to make you look at me?"

Danny just breathes -- exhales long and heavily. He drops the shirts and instead grabs Stiles' wrist. He touches Stiles' face. His thumb rubs over Stiles' cheek. "Can I--" he starts. 

Stiles kisses him before the question is finished.

||

and then kisses and kisses and more kisses and Stiles getting his hands under Danny's clothes FOR SYMBOLISM

and then Stiles climbs Danny like a tree or tries to, but these damn shoes actually have no traction whatsoever because they aren't sneakers. so fuck those shoes, off they go

||

"If it's any consolation, I saw you when you showed up," Danny blurts out between kisses because he's actually kind of terrible at relationships and that's why he's _so tsundere_. "You looked good."

"I think you mean that I looked _damn good_ , and you wanted to take me in a manly fashion in front of everyone," Stiles mutters back.

"Yeah," Danny agrees with a speed that is dizzying. He kisses Stiles again, and then seems to realize the enormity of what Stiles has just suggested. "Well, maybe not in front of everyone."

"Sure, okay. I mean--" Stiles takes a long pull from Danny's mouth, just drinking in his kisses like he's starved. "I mean, fuck, who wants to share?"

||

ugh they just get splayed out together on the floor of Danny's bedroom. Moonlight spills in through the window, and it brightens up Stiles' bare skin. Danny drops kisses across his chest while his hand dips below the waist of Stiles' pants. Danny intends just to hold him, just to feel what the weight of his arousal feels like, but Stiles chokes at his touch, and says Danny's name like it's a plea in and of itself. So Danny has to touch Stiles more -- he just does.

||

AND DANNY MAKES STILES COME ALL OVER HIMSELF OKAY AND THEN DANNY CLEANS STILES UP WITH HIS MOUTH BECAUSE WHY NOT.

and then like, lying together, cuddling on the floor, and Stiles is tracing circles on Danny's stomach and he says: "So what do you think I should wear to school on Monday?"

Danny pets his hand through Stiles' hair. "Wear whatever you want."

"Yeah?" Stiles says. "Cool."

He tiptoes his fingers across Danny's chest and stretches his arm out to snag one of the shirts that Danny had pulled out for him.

"I'll wear this then."

||

and then the end

and maybe a coda where Danny does like it when Stiles wears certain things. mostly it's when Stiles wears his clothes, which are big enough to look loose on him but small enough that when Stiles wears his shirts, and only his shirts, they don't cover up enough.


End file.
